


Surveillance

by Sproings



Series: Surveillance [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Feels, Iron Man 3 Spoilers, M/M, POV Outsider, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Steve Rogers's Sadness Errands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-18 05:00:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5899159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sproings/pseuds/Sproings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The subject continues to cause trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Technical Support

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [监听](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7299514) by [joankindom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/joankindom/pseuds/joankindom)



It’s entirely possible that this phone call will make me lose my job.

Shit.

I’m working mornings this week. They like to vary our schedules, probably in some misguided attempt at keeping us in the dark about who we’re listening to. I had to wake up at 4 AM on a Sunday to go to work, but it’s not too bad. He’s pretty cheerful in the morning. 

Usually.

This morning (6:42 AM) he punches in numbers on his phone. It’s a wonder the touchscreen doesn’t break. I wonder if they reinforced it for him.

The phone makes a weird squeal, and a click, and a dial tone.

He punches the numbers again, same as before, and the squeal, click, dial tone repeats itself. 

6:43 AM

“Goddammit.” He punches in something else, possibly a saved number, since it only took two punches this time, and the other end starts to ring.

“Are we assembling?” says a bleary voice. It’s a voice I’d recognize anywhere, even if it was filtered through a suit of robot armor. For example. I log it as ‘Unidentified Caller’. (6:44 AM)

“No, nothing like that,” says the subject. “I need you to fix my phone,” 

‘Unidentified’ sounds amused as he says, “Uh, okay, I’ll just need you to hang up first.”

“All right.”

There’s a soft click. Silence. And the subject’s phone rings. 

6:46 AM

“Did you get it fixed?” says the subject.

“It was a joke. Christ, is your brain still frozen? Your phone is obviously working, you’re using it right now.”

“I know it’s working for you, but it won’t call who I want it to call.” 

“What? Why, who are you trying to call?”

“Uh, Lorne Michaels,” says the subject, obviously reading the name.

“The tv producer?”

“Yes, he created some stupid show that was mocking a friend of mine, and I intend -- “

“Wow, I figured you’d be all about the free speech thing.”

“I am. He’s allowed to say whatever he wants, and I’m allowed to tell him to go to hell. Don’t they teach that in school anymore?”

“Dunno, I probably skipped those grades. Uh, look, if that phone is from where I think it’s from, it’s probably blocking your calls on purpose, for exactly this kind of scenario. You know how One-Eyed Willie gets.”

I hold my breath as hard as I can, because there’s a microphone in my face that would definitely pick up the sounds of me howling with laughter. The best part is knowing that he actually would say that to the director’s face. It’s a beautiful thought, but I don’t have time to relish it properly.

“One-Eyed . . . It’s not his decision to make. That show was demeaning. They had some actress pretending to be Peggy, decked out in a damned bikini. She was a war hero!”

“Did they even have bikinis back then?”

“That is not the point! They sure as hell didn’t show Dugan or Morita in their skivvies.”

“Wait,” says Unidentified, and I can hear him smirking. “You want to call and complain that they didn’t show _all_ your old war buddies in their underwear? Or maybe out of it? Is that why they called them -- ”

“You know what, fuck you. I should have known better than to think that you of all -- “

“Aunt Peg can take care of herself, champ. She’s been doing it all her life, with no help from you. But because I actually give a shit about her, I’ll get Pepper on it.”

“I -- “ the subject breaks off with a sigh that’s nearly a growl. “Thank you. For getting Pepper involved.”

“It’s whatever. You just stay out of it so you don’t embarrass us all. And by the way, next time you want tech support, you can start by using a Stark phone instead of just taking the first thing that the biggest spy network in the world hands to you.”

“Well, you’re not wrong,” says the subject. There’s a smile in his voice, like it’s a shared joke. “Really, thanks again, I -- “

There’s the sound of a dial tone.

“It was nice talking to you,” he says into the void.

6:48 AM

I consider deleting all of this. If anyone goes back to read the log, I doubt I could possibly convince them that I didn’t know who was talking, or what they were talking about. At best, I’d get reassigned, but this is so extremely classified, I don’t know what the worst case scenario would be. The only thing that stops me is that it seems like the kind of conversation he’d want to have on record.

7:02 AM

He’s dialing a new number. 

It rings twice before it’s picked up. “Hello?” says a voice. Higher pitched, maybe a non-American accent, slight tremor. I log it as ‘Unidentified Caller 2’.

“Hello Peggy,” says the subject. “It’s me. Steve. I know I don’t usually call, but there was a television show -- “

“How dare you?” Definitely an accent. British. Posh. Angry.

“Excuse me?”

“You think you’re the first little wanker to try this stunt?”

“Stunt? No, I -- “

“You thought you’d be funny. Well I’m here to tell you that you are not. And I can say with some authority that Captain America would have been ashamed of your behaviour. Now go do something meaningful with your life.”

There’s a click. A dial tone.

7:04 AM

Silence.

Something very large crashes. I would guess that it was a couch hitting a wall. I debate whether to log it. 

I don’t.

7:05 AM The entry door opens and closes. I log that, although it would have been more accurate to say the door slammed. 

7:06 AM Silence, stretching through the rest of my shift.


	2. Training

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The subject is away

**Monday**

6:00 PM 

The refrigerator opens, then closes. The microwave opens, then closes, then runs, then opens again. 

He’s a very quiet eater. He's pretty quiet at everything, really.

6:29 PM 

A phone rings, the sound muffled by his pocket. It gets louder when he pulls it out, then stops when he answers.

“Hello?”

Silence as he listens.

“No, I think that’s a great idea. I’ve been pushing for months to train as a unit.”

Silence again.

“I am absolutely free.”

“Yeah, the whole week.”

“Great. See you in twenty minutes, then. And Brock? Thanks for calling.” 

6:32 PM

He walks down the hall to his bedroom, and there’s a hurried shuffle of fabric, like clothes being stuffed into a bag.

6:47 PM

The entry door opens and closes, and there’s the sound of the deadbolt being locked from outside.

6:48 PM

Silence for the rest of my shift.

**Tuesday**

Silence.

This wasn’t my first assignment for this kind of thing, of course. Not by a long shot. Most of them have been pretty straightforward. Boring. They eat their food and watch tv and text their friends. 

Once I had to call in a STRIKE team, because a window broke and there was screaming. No idea how that ended, but given the other things I’d heard in that place, I wasn’t worried. The guy deserved whatever he got.

**Wednesday**

Silence.

Once I was assigned to a farmer. I listened to her for months. She was so completely normal. She had two kids, which meant that I heard a lot of Nick Jr. and Disney Channel. And every week she’d get a phone call. I could only hear her end of it, but it was always about how the kids were doing, things she’d done around the house, how much rain they’d gotten and what that would mean for the corn.

She’d say ‘I love you,’ before they hung up, all bright and sunny, and then she’d go to her room, turn off the lights, and cry. And I’d log in:

9:38 PM 

Subject wept. 

9:42 PM 

Subject appears to have fallen asleep. 

I never considered what it might mean to her if she knew that someone had heard that. Had logged it in their tablet for the entire organization to read. That kind of information could not possibly be used to protect her or anyone else. But I didn’t think twice. I just did my duty. Followed orders.

Then one day the kids all cheered about their Auntie Nat arriving.

And the line abruptly died.

It couldn’t have been _her_. That’s not realistic.

But I didn’t need to call in a team, because I was immediately notified that surveillance for this subject had been terminated.

**Thursday**

Silence.

I wonder if he’s heard the news. It would be nearly impossible to avoid, for anyone who wasn’t out on a training assignment with a top secret STRIKE team. 

It’s not fair. He’s lost too much already.

**Friday**

5:48 PM

The entry door opens, then closes. Something soft hits the floor, like a bag full of clothes.

“Home sweet home,” he says. I don’t log the sarcastic nature of the comment.

5:49 PM

The phone in his pocket rings. He answers.

“Hello?”

“Oh, hello Agent Hill, yes, I -- ”

“What?! Tony -- How?”

“What the hell is The Mandarin?”

“No, I wasn’t informed! What kind of -- “ The subject takes a deep breath. “What happened to Tony?”

“And what about Pepper? Is she -- ”

“How do I go after this Mandarin?”

“Jesus.” His voice was muffled, like he was covering his mouth with his hand. It was clear again when he went on, “Does Bruce know?”

“Goddamn it, Tony was his friend, he -- ”

“You think finding out some other way won’t make him even more angry? He deserves to hear it from -- “

“Yes, I’d do it myself! Give me an address.”

“Great, I’ll meet them downstairs. And I’m -- I apologize for cursing at you, ma’am.”

“It still isn’t appropriate. Thank you for informing me about all this. Goodbye.”

He hangs up the phone. 

“Oh god, Tony,” he whispers. 

5:52 PM

He takes a deep breath that seems to hitch and catch in his lungs. I know mine does. 

5:53 PM

He clears his throat. The entry door opens and closes, and there’s the sound of the deadbolt being locked from outside.

5:54 PM

Silence.


	3. Quiet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are left unsaid.

I pull on my headphones, and my co-worker says, “He’s not in right now. Apparently he had something to celebrate.”

“It’s nice that someone does.”

We should be celebrating. Tony Stark is alive, and he and Colonel Rhodes kept the President from being assassinated. Iron Man and War Machine, the hero America deserves and the hero America needs.

But it was supposed to be our job to do those things. No, it was supposed to be our job to see those things coming, and to prevent them from ever happening. The Vice President was involved in a wide-reaching conspiracy, and none of us had a clue.

Or at least, none of us reported it.

That’s the real reason for the lack of celebration, even if most of us don’t realize it. We’re the world’s greatest spy organization, and nobody heard anything? We’re either incompetent or --

“Logging off, then,” says my co-worker.

“Acknowledged.” 

Silence.

I have imaginary conversations with my friends, sometimes. 

It’s not as if I can actually talk to anyone about this stuff. Revealing state secrets is generally a bad idea and although I do keep a mental list of countries that might be willing to grant me asylum if I need it, I’d really rather stay home. After all, someone needs to feed my cat.

So instead, I have these imaginary conversations. “She tried to burp the alphabet!” and they laugh along with me. “He served his kids ice cream and waffles for dinner!” and they say “Who does that?”

“I’m listening in on Captain fucking America!” and they say, ‘Why?”

“What. To protect him.” 

“Did you see him fighting in New York? There were space-whales. If space-whales ever show up again, he’d be protecting you, not the other way around.”

My imaginary friends have a point.

Why. Why a farmer out in Iowa or wherever? Why the Undersecretary of Defense? Why Captain fucking America? Who are we protecting, and from what?

Why didn’t I ask any of this sooner?

**Sunday**

6:00 PM

Refrigerator, microwave, chewing, dishes in the sink. 

6:32 PM

He sits on the couch. There’s the sound of a pencil on a pad of paper. Sketching, not writing.

6:47 PM

There’s a knock at the entry door. Soft footsteps as he approaches. The door opens.

Nothing. Or rather, no voices. A second set of footsteps, even softer than his, and the door closes.

Nothing. Just movement.

I might be the world’s leading expert on the sound of breathy moans, clothes being removed, lips on skin. That’s not what this is. Not at all. This is . . . 

I don’t know.

They move to the kitchen. Refrigerator. Cabinet. Two glasses being filled. Refrigerator. And always that sound of movement. 

He laughs, a quiet, startled sound. He often sounds surprised when he laughs. He moves faster for a moment.

I try to picture them. Not touching. Smiling, laughing, moving their arms and hands. Gesturing.

Oh shit, signing! It’s sign language. I’ve never listened to it before, but that has to be it.

7:00 PM

The television turns on, and two people sit on the couch. Commercials for Ford trucks, Budweiser, and Viagra. Someone snorts at that last one. Not him, I think, but the newcomer. I wonder if they’re making the obvious ‘old man’ jokes. Then a show starts. A police procedural, it sounds like, except one of the characters is named Mister Whiskers. 

I have plenty of time to figure it out. The entire remainder of my shift is spent listening to a Dog Cops marathon, and not a word is ‘spoken’ in the apartment, though they seem to be deep in conversation.

They could be saying anything, and I’d never know. Oh I hate it, it’s brilliant. I wish I could tell him. Not out loud, that’s too risky. Maybe leave him a note, if I knew where to . . . 

I could probably find him. They should never have had someone in the same area listen to him. Certainly not me, because I know my city. I know the sound of a ferry on the Potomac. I know the tornado sirens in Arlington. I know the traffic on 66. 

I could find him. I could tell him.

It would be treason. But I could do it.

I won’t. 

Not for this.

But I could. For him, I could. It’s stupid, it’s childish, it’s foolhardy, but it’s Captain fucking America, and I’m ready to follow him into the jaws of death, just like the cartoons said.

I really hope it never comes to that.


	4. History

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to machine-dove, who knows exactly how to respond to an e-mail that says "tell me not to delete all of this".
> 
> Also, DO NOT GOOGLE THE THING. 
> 
> Just don't.

A few weeks ago I came across a book at a secondhand store. 

Okay, I went looking for this specific book at a secondhand store. I paid cash, and I bought a stack of cookbooks with it, so I could swap out the covers before I left the store. Just in case.

I don’t know how far I’d have to go before I’d consider myself paranoid.

A lot further than this.

I’m sure that my internet search history is being recorded somewhere. I keep a list in my head of horrible things to search for. It makes me feel a little better, knowing that anyone who’s keeping tabs on me will be subjected to the lotusboob picture. Privacy isn’t an option, so a little petty revenge will have to do. 

There’s loads of information in the book. For example, Steve Rogers was deaf in one ear. It doesn’t mention anything about how he dealt with it, but I think sign language is a safe enough topic to google. I start by searching for Children of a Lesser God, then click through to an article about Marlee Matlin, and from there to Wikipedia’s entry on American Sign Language. 

It turns out the history of ASL is pretty fascinating. Except for the racially segregated schools in the South, which were underprivileged enough to avoid the “helpful” effort to stamp it out, sign language wasn’t taught in American schools when he was a kid.

Maybe he learned it in the future, or maybe from a black neighbor in his own era. It’s another one of those things that I’ll never know.

How much of our knowledge of history was shaped by people politely ignoring uncomfortable topics?

How much of our history was shaped by people deliberately obscuring the truth?

Is that what I’m doing?

James (Bucky) Buchanan Barnes  
March 10, 1917 to March 5, 1945

He was undeniably handsome. There’s a picture of him on this page. The jaunty angle of his cover is completely non-regulation, and he has bright eyes and a wicked smile and -- Had. He had a wicked smile, but he’s long dead now. For all of us, at least. Not so long for his Captain.

Abraham Lincoln shared a bed with his friend Joshua Fry Speed for four years, during a time when two men sharing a bed wasn’t considered unusual. But there are rumors. There have always been rumors. 

My imaginary friends tell me that no one would believe any amount of proof that Lincoln wasn’t straight. Worse, they tell me that if there was proof, there’d be groups who would try to take his face off our currency, tear down all the memorials, repeal the 13th amendment.

That last one seems extreme, but sometimes it’s my job to listen to extremists. I’ve heard every kind of hate there is, more than I ever thought was possible. Almost enough to forget that anything else exists.

My imaginary friends tell me that if there was proof that Lincoln wasn’t straight, it would give hope to untold numbers of people. He’d be a guiding light for the whole community. Any squeamishness over his legacy can’t begin to outbalance that.

But Lincoln isn’t here to suffer through the consequences. He’s long dead, along with everyone who ever knew him.

Steve Rogers is still alive. 

Does history deserve the truth more than he deserves his privacy?

James (Bucky) Buchanan Barnes

Best friends since childhood.

“Oh, god”

Inseparable.

“Bucky, yes”

The only Howling Commando to give his life.

**2:34 AM The subject wept.**

That was how I logged it last night. 

I’m on a new schedule again. I was tired. I wasn’t thinking. I was doing my job.

Just following orders.

Using a backdoor into the system to erase it now would be stupidly dangerous.

It takes me three minutes and thirty eight seconds.


	5. Photo Ops

This is outrageously stupid.

First there were the rumors. Something had happened with Director Fury, that much everyone agreed on. A car crash? Gunshot wounds? Yesterday afternoon? Last night? He was injured? He was dead? Nobody knew.

On my headset, everything was quiet, empty, but there was too much background noise, as if all the windows were open. It didn’t make sense.

An hour into my shift, new orders came. We were supposed to scan through photos flagged by the facial recognition software, and positively identify Steve Rogers/Captain America.

I’m not even exactly sure what Steve Rogers looks like these days. I know what he sounds like when he combs his hair, but I don’t know what style it is. How could I? I’ve been actively avoiding watching the news about him or looking up pictures of him, because I can’t let on that I know who I’ve been listening to. 

But here I am, flipping through selfies from a look-alike burlesque revue. People’s names are attached to these photos. Even the worst of my subjects had their names protected, but there’s no anonymity here at all. Tariq Lewis took his picture with a tall gorgeous blond man dressed mostly in glitter, and tagged it “Captain Assmerica!” That’s not something I should know, and it’s not helping anyone. 

It’s all so wrong. Captain America deserves my best work, and this isn’t it.

I tap into some systems I’m not supposed to know about, and find that the last known location for Captain Rogers is -- Here. He was here, in the Triskelion. 

The surveillance in the Triskelion is very, very good. I find footage of him entering an elevator, and I have my choice of camera angles to watch from. He’s unmistakeable in his suit with his shield on his back, and at least now I know what his hair looks like.

There is no video available from inside the elevator. The file is missing, almost certainly deleted.

A chill runs through me. Nobody should have access to those videos. Nobody but us. 

Maybe I am paranoid. I find the files for my current subject and I start deleting them. Someone is in the system, and I’m not putting my work in their hands. I don’t remember recording anything that would help them find him now, but I’m not taking the chance.

Audio surveillance files are always saved separately. They really believe that if we can’t see, we won’t know who we’re listening to. 

I do some digging, and there is an audio file from the elevator with the same timestamp as the missing video.

I know exactly who I’m listening to. I know him well enough that when he’s lying in bed at night, I can tell from the sound of his breathing if he’s asleep or awake. He’s definitely awake in that elevator.

“Cap.”

“Rumlow.”

Brock Rumlow, head of the STRIKE team. They trained together, worked together, so at least he has back-up, whatever’s going on. They talk about fibers on a roof, and getting the tac team ready. The subj -- Captain Rogers wants to wait and see what it is first.

Tony Stark’s files are next. I listened to him for a few weeks, before he got captured in Afghanistan, so I know where to look. I set about deleting his audio files and all the log entries.

General chatter, some of it about what happened to Fury, but too vague to tell me any more than I already know. The beep of the elevator, more bodies shuffling inside. The elevator gliding down.

“Before we get started, does anyone want to get out?” Oh, he is not happy, and I soon find out why.

Absolute chaos. No way of knowing who’s attacking him, but he’s fighting hard. Part of me itches to go do something, but this audio is too old, it’s already over.

Stark’s files are done. I only have a first name for the next one. Bruce. Captain Rogers asked about someone named Bruce, said he was Tony’s friend.

“Whoa big guy. I just want you to know, Cap, this isn’t personal!” Rumlow, leaping to attack on that last word.

Oh shit.

Right before Stark ‘died’, Rumlow called Steve away. A wide reaching conspiracy to assassinate the President, and Captain America just happened to be on a training exercise with no means of communication. Awfully fucking convenient timing.

Pain. The captain is in pain, like I’ve never heard from him. Fleshy hits, the crash of broken glass. Someone falls to the floor.

Heavy breathing. _His_ breathing. “It kinda feels personal.”

My hands are shaking. There are lots of people named Bruce, but only one is linked with Stark. I delete all the surveillance files I can find for Bruce Banner, though there aren’t many. 

The elevator beeps, and the doors slide open.

Guns coming to the ready. “Drop the shield, put your hands in the air!”

High tension cables snap, and the elevator drops fast. 

Searching for files on Black Widow seems like a bad idea. She doesn’t need my help with that, any more than Captain Rogers needs me to help fight space-whales, and there’s about the same likelihood that I’d die trying. She has ways.

The elevator grinds to a stop. He pries the doors open.

A whole troop of footsteps approaching. 

Us. This is us. Those are our troops, our guns.

He shoves the doors closed again.

“Give it up, Rogers, get that door open. You got nowhere to go.”

A search for ‘Hawkeye’ doesn’t turn up any surveillance files, as expected. Neither does ‘Thor’.

A massive crash of glass, and the elevator is empty.

I do my best to cover my tracks, but if anyone looks, they’ll find out what I’ve done.

I don’t care.

I joined because I wanted to make a difference. To fight the good fight. To cut off one head, and all the others that took its place. 

I don’t know a better fight than this. And I’m not done yet.


	6. Omission

There’s missing footage of the plaza outside the northwest elevator, and of the bridge. Whatever else they did to try to keep him from escaping is something they want to keep secret, which must mean it failed. We’re still looking for him, after all. Hopefully he got out okay.

Before the Triskelion, the last place he’d been seen was the hospital, so I go back to check the footage there, in case there’s some clue to where he’d go next.

There’s more than a clue. There’s him. He’s in a hoodie and sweatpants, keeping his face down, but a woman with red hair approaches and his face is visible for half a second as he shoves her around a corner, out of sight.

I delete that half second of footage, but missing files can get noticed. I fumble around as quickly as I can, and finally manage to change the focus on all the hospital security cameras. Blurry images won’t ping the facial recognition software, and nobody would be obsessed enough to go through the footage themselves. Except me, I guess.

I can just make out the red of her hair as they leave together.

There are files on anyone he’s been seen with more than twice. A seventeen year old girl has a classified file about her life and associates that we aggregated just because she sold him Chunky Monkey a few times. So does the guy he buys newspapers from. An archivist at the Smithsonian. A hot guy he jogs past every morning. 

I select the text from each one, run it through three languages on google translate, and paste it back in. All except that last one. I don’t have clearance to alter his. I’m not even supposed to read it. Wilson’s not just a pararescue jumper, he’s a PJ so elite he was chosen for a top secret experimental flight suit progam. I hope he’s on our -- on the Captain’s side. 

Agent “all hands on deck” Sitwell announces that he’s leaving for lunch with a Senator. I wonder what side he’s on. It seems like the bad guys are the only ones who even know there are sides.

Bruce Banner’s records only go back a few years. He has one associate listed, and it’s Tony Stark. 

Then there are Stark’s associates. They are endless, and they include people like President Ellis, General Ross, and Colonel Rhodes. I work my way down through the ranks until I find some files I can alter, like his driver and the CEO of his company.

When the interruptions come, I can only stand by helplessly. 

The facial recognition software pops up with new images to confirm. There’s footage from inside a bus, of Captain America crashing through the windows, brushing himself off, and running into a firefight.

More footage from a stoplight camera, of a long haired, dead eyed, metal armed monster who throws the shield like he’s used it half his life. Somehow, after this brutal fight, he stops at one word from Steve, but there’s no goddamned audio. 

Someone kicks the monster in the head, flying in on the same experimental wings that the hot jogger used to wear into combat. A rocket launcher fires, and the smoke obscures the camera.

Footage from a news helicopter, of Steve Rogers falling to his knees in front of the same STRIKE team who fought him in the elevator.

They take him into custody, and we’re told we can go home.

* * *

I’m not even sure why I showed up today. I watched the news last night, because it’s nowhere near as risky as any of the other things I’ve done lately. They didn’t say anything about him.

They talked about a ‘lone wolf’ who shot up a bus. Luckily a SWAT team that happened to be in the area was able to quickly apprehend him. 

No story about an EXO suit going missing from Fort Meade, but those wings must have come from somewhere.

No word about rocket launchers or metal arms or Captain America. 

It means something, but I don’t know what.

I do what I’ve been assigned to do, monitoring the communications between the helicarriers. It’s boring, and I don’t see what harm it could do.

I also look for entries for new high priority prisoners, but I don’t find any.

The PA system comes on, and I know from the first inhaled breath. He’s alive. 

I wish I had time to focus on his words, but instead I sign into the server for the local sound system. I’ve had an administrative account since the system was set up. I make sure to deactivate everyone else and change the password behind me.

I only got there first by the barest of margins, and I know what’s coming next.

There’s a surge of incoming traffic, a DDOS attack that will take the sound system offline, so I set to work blocking IP addresses.

Someone somehow overrides my access. I don’t know what level of access they’d need to be able to do that, but I know I don’t have it. The Captain’s voice stays on, so hopefully it’s someone from his side.

“. . . if I’m the only one, then so be it. But I’m willing to bet I’m not.”

I’m pretty sure I’m going to throw up. 

All around me, hands are creeping towards weapons. I hear the distinctive click of guns being taken off safety, and Brock Rumlow is stalking through the room.

Death is going to happen. For a long moment, all I can hear is my own heartbeat rushing in my ears.

“I’m not gonna launch those ships. Captain’s orders.” His voice quavers when he says it. It’s the bravest thing I’ve ever heard.

Then everything goes to hell. There’s so much gunfire, and the space is so small.

When the dust finally settles, my hearing is completely fucked. Without it, I’m useless.

I run away like the coward I am.


	7. Wreckage

“SHIELD wasn’t infiltrated by HYDRA. SHIELD became HYDRA,” I tell them.

I’m not sure how an impassive one-eyed glare can be so intimidating, but I’ll stand by my words. 

“And what does that make you?” Fury asks, as if he’s only mildly curious.

I think about my answer. I wonder if my life is on the line. Maybe it’s a bad sign that I have to think for so long. Especially since all I can come up with is, “I don’t know.”

The woman, the one with impossible red hair, the one I’m afraid to even put a name to in my own head, raises an eyebrow at me. 

I decide I’d better say more. “I never meant to be HYDRA. I didn’t think HYDRA existed anymore. But I guess I wasn’t trying not to be, either. I didn’t listen to the warning signs. I didn’t worry about what was right. So I ended up doing their work for them, and I don’t know what that makes me.”

She tilts her head at me. “Then why’d you delete those files?”

“Because he deserved better.” It just sort of tumbles out of me, and I try to buffer it by adding, “They all deserved better.”

It’s only then that it occurs to me that she was the one who published SHIELD’s secrets for the whole world to see. That my actions undid some tiny corner of her work.

As if she can read my thoughts, she says, “Knowing what you know now, if you had it to do over again, would you?”

What I know now is that the building I used to work in was smashed into rubble over these secrets, with some of my co-workers still inside. What I know now is that none of the people I found in that wreckage survived. 

“I’d have burned SHIELD to the ground.” 

I leave feeling more like I’ve gone through a job interview than an investigation, but I also feel like I didn’t get the job.

* * *

I can tell as soon as I open the door that there are two people in my apartment. 

It’s been a long time, but I still recognize his breathing, and that’s the only reason I’m not afraid.

Not until I hear a muffled whir, and see the metal arm.

There is a very strong temptation to run, away from one and toward the other, but they’re side by side, leaning back against my kitchen cabinets, looking at me.

I close the door and check that it’s locked before I sit down at the table. It seems better than collapsing on the floor.

“You know who we are,” says the Captain. It’s not a question.

“Yeah. You’re Captain Rogers, and he’s the -- “ Some instinct for self preservation keeps me from saying ‘the monster’. “He fought you.”

“Not exactly,” Captain Rogers says.

The other guy rolls his eyes. “Yes, exactly. Did you think I was trying to play patty cake?”

“You weren’t --”

“Jesus Christ, Steve, is this really where you want to have this conversation?”

“Well from what I understand, I don’t have many secrets here.”

Oh fuck. They both turn to me. 

I deserve this. I deserve whatever scorn he has for me. I try to hold my head up as I tell him, “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. You probably still have some secrets, but not as many as you should.”

He gives a half hearted shrug.

“When did you start erasing things?” the metal armed guy asks, scowling.

I’m terrified enough to tell him the absolute truth. “Pretty early on. I figured out who I was listening to on the first day, and -- “

“It wasn’t just all at the end?” Captain Rogers looks back and forth between me and the scary guy, and I can tell by his voice he’s surprised.

“Um. Some of it I deleted as it happened. It was really private, so . . . “

“You knew,” Captain Rogers says, glaring at the scary guy.

“I suspected. There’s a difference.” He turns to me. “We’re here to offer you a job.”

Captain Rogers rubs his forehead. “You can’t just -- “ 

“I just did,” says the guy.

“With SHIELD?” I ask. I’m not sure I can go back there.

“Nope. This is _personal_.” The guy’s grin when he says it is absolutely feral, and I find myself twitching a smile in return. If that’s who we’re going after, then I’m all in.

Captain Rogers sighs and turns to me. “Are you any good in a firefight?”

Oh. “No. I’m really not.”

The guy raises an eyebrow at the captain. “Gee, imagine having to look after someone who gets involved in fights when they got no chance of winning. How terrible.”

The captain rolls his eyes. “Shut up.”

“Might do you good to spend time around someone who knows how not to fight.”

Steve smirks. “That rules you out.”

“Punk,” the guy says with a laugh, and it’s like he’s been transformed. Suddenly he has bright eyes and a wicked smile and --

The sharp little breath I draw between my teeth would go unnoticed by a lot of people, but both of them turn at the sound.

It can’t be possible. The metal armed monster who stopped at one word from the captain. It can’t be, even HYDRA wouldn’t --

“So that’s one less secret you’ve got here,” says the guy. Says James Buchanan Barnes.

“Never wanted to keep you hidden,” Steve says, in a voice I’ve never heard before. Soft. Fond.

The two of them have an entire conversation made only of silences while I look down at my hands.

“All right, if you’re coming, get your stuff,” says Barnes. “We’re due to meet Wilson in ten minutes.” 

I don’t know where I’m going, but I get my stuff. I’m following them.


	8. This Is Why

I joined because I believed in someone. Because he deserved better than the world had given him so far. And somehow, I found this. 

I pull on the headphones, and I can’t quite help giving a contented sigh, even though the microphone will pick it up.

“How are they doing?” I ask.

A familiar voice answers, “So far, so good. Looking to engage any minute now. You ready?”

“Absolutely,” I answer. Hill makes a sound of approval. We work pretty well together, and more often than not we end up laughing over the comms, unless there’s an op going on, like right now.

This is why we’re here. For them. The Captains. All three of them.

Everybody knows who they are.

“Here we go,” Hill says.

“Acknowledged.” 

There’s silence on the line. Then the faint pop of distant gunfire. It’s Maria’s job to monitor the video feed from Falcon’s suit. I used to try to keep up, but she’s better at it than I am. Instead, I do what I’m best at. I listen. For the moment, I have all three of their audio feeds up. 

There’s a constant rush of air from Falcon. Light footed running from Cap. Near silence from Winter.

Off in the distance, I pick up the familiar whine of repulsors, and I flip the switch to broadcast to the Captains. “Iron Man is incoming.”

“Ugh, thanks for the warning,” says a low, gruff voice.

There’s a soft click as a new set of comms link in, and Stark says, “I heard that, Elsa.”

“You were supposed to,” says Winter, and almost at the same time, Cap says, “You did? Golly gee, what’s it like having a phonograph inside your helmet?” 

There’s a curious silence from Stark, and I suspect he muted his mic so nobody could hear him laugh.

Someone is running up a flight of stairs. I cycle through the channels to isolate the sound. It’s Cap, inside a building. An empty warehouse, from the echo. He kicks a door open, and there’s a wavering electrical buzz.

“Stun baton! On Cap,” I announce across all headsets.

There’s already a flurry of punches and kicks.

“I see him,” says Maria. “The warehouse with the busted water tower.”

“That roof’s not stable,” says Stark. “Dammit.”

There’s twice as much rushing air as usual, which means Falcon is carrying Winter. A gunshot, nearby on two mics, and a shriek of pain on another mic, followed by a heavy punch and silence.

“He’s down, but still alive,” says Cap.

Winter snarls, “I can fix that.”

“We discussed this -- “

“You discussed this. I never -- “

“Toss him off the roof, I can take him in,” says Tony. “Although, I might drop him once or twice, in honor of Buckster’s birthday.”

“Oh god, who told you?” There’s a light thump as Winter lands beside Cap.

Stark snorts. “Every history book ever? You’re coming to the tower. I made cake. Well, I ordered cake.”

Winter and Cap shove at the same time, and Iron Man zooms in close, presumably catching Rumlow’s unconscious body.

“Got him. I’ll beat you there. Bring your star spangled boyfriend and your whole entourage -- “

“I’m nobody’s entourage,” says Maria.

“I am,” I say.

Falcon laughs.

“Happy fucking birthday to me.” 

“It’s all right, Buck,” says Cap in a soft voice. “We can still -- “

“You want a private channel for this?” I ask, before he can say any more.

“Uhh -- ”

“Yes,” says Winter, and the smirk is obvious in his voice. 

I mute both of their mics, and I sit back and wonder how to dress for a party at the Avenger’s Tower. 

God, I love my job.

It’s nothing like what I expected, but I wouldn’t leave it for the world.

THE END


End file.
